


Maybe I Could

by ViolaWay



Category: Video Blogging & YouTube RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff, M/M, artist!Phil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-02
Updated: 2013-05-02
Packaged: 2017-12-10 04:46:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/781935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViolaWay/pseuds/ViolaWay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Dan hates things irrationally and Phil makes life into art.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe I Could

Dan hates art. It's not that there's a reason, not really. Mostly it's just that he can't draw himself, and he's always been one for bitterness. Personality flaw. He's working on it. So when he's dragged to an art gallery for some display by the biggest new artist in London, he's not exactly looking forward to a night of having to converse with actual people about one of the things he hates most in the world. Although he shouldn't hate it. He knows that.

Carrie is excited, though. Her blonde curls bob up and down as she pulls him out of the taxi and he gives her a lukewarm smile in return for her efforts. She's dressed up for the occasion, a purple dress, heels and new jewellery, and she's forced Dan into a tux. So he humours her. She obviously cares a lot about the event, and he should at least try to enjoy himself. He knows that.

The hall is milling with people by the time they're through the doors. Waiters slalom through art enthusiasts, politely offering champagne ("Go on, just one glass, it's included in the price", "Darling, you look gorgeous tonight"), and the guests all chat about refined, sophisticated topics. He should join in with a conversation; seem like a normal human being for once. He knows that. But they're all so dull, with their tight fitting dresses and tuxes that match his (oh, the horror). There's no one there to catch his interest, literally no one...

"Um, excuse me. Can I have your attention please?" calls a voice.

The voice is so nervous and unique in comparison to the self-assured chatter that Dan actually follows the instructions, turning round to see a tall, lanky boy in a yellow and black checked shirt and black skinny jeans standing atop a small platform, his large eyes darting around the small audience at the speed of light.

"Gosh, you didn't all have to dress up. Um."

Dan grins to himself; the man is possibly more dorky than he is himself.

"I'm Phil Lester, but I guess you all know that, actually, since you're here to see my work. Which is crazy, by the way. I never expected any of this, honestly. It's just...wow," Phil breathes, and Dan feels his lips curve upwards again, just at how cute Phil is. Like a toddler showing his finger paintings to Mummy.

"Please, um, look around. Some of it is photos combined with my own stuff; I've tried to capture London life. Have fun and drink lots. Thank you!"

This statement is what reminds Dan that Phil is actually an artist, a well-renowned one at that, and that he does not find artists ‘cute’. Ever. He knows that.

Doesn’t he?

He decides to look around, though. To be polite. Obviously. The paintings are interesting, he'll admit: none are really serious; they're not trying to make a political statement. They're just showing life itself, in all its forms. There's a girl with pink hair, nose piercings and fishnet tights. Here's two guys holding hands, and one of them's got swirling painted colours from his chest, the picture edited and painted on so that it's got a reddish hue, and Dan isn't really sure what it's meant to be showing. Love? Or the anger that surrounded the two men for being who they were? Or passion? Against his better instincts, he finds himself interested; he wants to know more.

"I know you."

Dan whirls around to see Phil awkwardly playing with his hands, his blue eyes inquisitive.

"What?" Dan asks.

"Um, sorry. But over here..." Phil grabs the arm of Dan's tux and leads him through the throngs of people. "I know you," he repeats quietly.

And know him he does. Dan does not occupy one picture but three. Each time he’s in a different outfit, which represents a significant passage of time, which is slightly concerning.

"Er, were you stalking me?" he asks, almost laughing a bit at the pure absurdity of the situation.

"No," Phil denies quickly. "I was just...I, er, live near you, and you were interesting."

Well. That’s one way of looking at it. In one picture, Dan is sat cross-legged in the centre of the frame. Sitting on the pavement. For no apparent reason. Phil has faded the edges into grey, but the picture morphs into colour around Dan. Like he’s lighting up the area around him. The second picture features him in the process of dramatically dropping a cup of Starbucks coffee. The camera has caught the moment perfectly: Dan even remembers it. He sees the foam that had caught in his hair in the picture and chuckles to himself. The last picture is different again, though. And Dan remembers that moment with a vividness he hates. Home for the first time after coming out to his parents. Sat down again, this time on the curb, a single tear glistening on his cheek. Dan wonders how Phil has caught the moment in this much detail, how the camera can be that focused and clear. The zoom on it must be amazing. He blinks against the tears that were coming back to him at the mere thought of that night, of the red wine turning stale in his belly and the dejected position which he had occupied in the street, not wanting to face his own apartment, where he had shagged many a guy without his parents knowing. But now he knew that if they had been aware of what was happening, they would have been disgusted. He feels a hand on his shoulder, a small squeeze, bringing him back to the present.

"I'm sorry," Phil says apologetically. "I didn't mean to..."

"No, no, these are actually amazing. The last one, how you've painted the background into those kind of swirls and things...it's actually how I felt," Dan admits, a little reluctantly.  

"I shouldn't have taken the pictures without your permission, much less put them up in a gallery for everyone to see. I actually—I asked everyone else you see around you, but I never asked you."

"Why not?" Dan asks curiously.

"Um, it's embarrassing," Phil mutters, laughing nervously.

"You've got a picture of me spilling coffee all over myself in an art gallery. It's your turn to be humiliated," Dan grins.

"Okay, well, um. You were just, in my imagination, you were just this guy, and I had your life story, well not yours, obviously, but who I wanted you to be, I guess. You were beautiful, I hope you don't mind me saying that, and you didn't care what anyone thought of you. No one else would just sit on the pavement outside their house or be so clumsy that their coffee went everywhere without them having anything to trip over or stumble on. No one would have the courage to want to not cry in front of their roommate, so they sat in the gutter letting the tears out. No one except you. But, I thought, maybe you were a jerk. Maybe you had reasons for those things, reasons I hadn't anticipated. But worst, maybe you wouldn't let me keep the pictures. You're the most wonderful creation I've ever painted, or edited. You're the most beautiful piece in this collection, in any collection. I didn't want to lose that."

Dan can't help but simply stare at Phil after that. No one has ever called him those things before: brave and beautiful and all the rest.

"I'm sorry," finishes Phil. "I wanted to know who you really were, but I was too scared. I should've asked."

"No, you shouldn't have," Dan replies. "See, I would've said no, because I hate art. Always have. Because I could never be a part of it, y'know, since I can't draw. But you...you made me a part of art, Phil. And it's perfect. You've shown who I am and we've never spoken a word to each other before tonight. You've given me the best gift I could ever hope to receive. To be a part of something this wonderful is...it's inspiring."

"Thank you," whispers Phil.

"No, thank you," Dan responds. "No one's ever been...fascinated by me before. No one's ever thought of me as really interesting. Well, who would? I'm a failure. But you did. You saw something in me and you turned it into art. That—that's amazing."

Phil is silent for a moment, staring searchingly into Dan's eyes, calculating. It’s as if they’re caught in a moment, suspended in time. Nothing can break the spell.

"You know, I saw you earlier. In my speech—if you could call it that—I mean. I thought you were a figment of my imagination," Phil laughs, but there’s a small catch in his voice, as if he’s about to cry. "And then there you were again, in front of my second favourite piece. Did you recognize the two guys in the photo?"

"No..."

"But do you feel like you know them?"

Dan thinks back to when he was staring at the picture, he thinks about its vibrant shades and vivid imagery. In a way, it truly captures the personality of the two men, just as Dan's pictures caught his spirit.

"Yes," he answers finally. "I feel like I know them."

"Then I've done my job," Phil smiles, satisfied. "That's what I think art is about. It's about telling a story. And sometimes that story is true."

"You got my story right," Dan admits. "Maybe not the beautiful bit, but the thing about not wanting to face Carrie after all that...that was true. And I am really that clumsy, and crazy. You knew who I was, I guess. It's kind of weird."

"That's the strangest thing; I feel like I know you. A few pictures and it's as if I understand you, and I can talk to you as if I've known you for more than a few minutes," Phil mutters.

"Well, I know nothing about you," Dan says. "So how about you show me around. Tell me the stories."

"I'd love to," Phil smiles. "But hadn't you better go find your date?"

"Date?" Dan asks blankly.

"The girl you came in with? Purple dress?" Phil clarifies.

"Oh God, that's Carrie, my roommate. If I were straight, I can assure you she'd be my first destination, but that is not the case; we're just friends. She was the one who convinced me to come here, actually."

"All the same, shouldn't you go and find her?" asks Phil.

"Are you trying to get rid of me?"

"Well..."

"What?"

"I just...I'll end up saying more than I want to."

Dan raises an eyebrow, puzzled.

"What do you mean?"

"Something about you makes me want to tell you everything, and I can't do that," Phil tells him, smiling sadly.

"So tell me!" Dan offers instantly.

"You don't want to hear it, trust me," Phil warns him, closing his eyes, breaking the connection.

"Please?" Dan pleads.

"Oh God. It's just...do you think it's possible to think you're in love with someone without even talking to them? And then when you actually speak to them for the first time, it's better than you actually could have even imagined...but you don't want to freak them out...and you can't lie to them. All you know is that their eyes are deeper close up, and you could just fall into them forever. And every time they lick their lips you want to lean forward, and every time they fix their hair you want to run your hands through it. And you just want to sit with them and pour out your heart to them forever, if that was okay. But it's not, it's just creepy."

"Are you—are you trying to say that you're in love with me?" Dan manages to choke out.

"No. Yes. Look, I'll just leave. Forget I said anything." Phil turns quickly and begins to flee, but Dan catches his waist, pulling him closer (this is totally inappropriate personal space invasion in a room full of people but to be fair Phil has just declared love within half an hour of meeting he thinks he can be let off for this one).

"Okay, so I'm not in love with you," Dan starts. "But I can see how easy it would be. I can see that I want to hold you and make you smile every time you get nervous, like you did when you made your speech earlier. I can see that I'd really like to hold your hand, like in that picture. And I know that even though I like to think I'm not vain, you could take pictures of me doing the stupidest things if you wanted, and I wouldn't mind, because I could trust that you would make it beautiful. And I know that I very much want to kiss you now, in front of everyone, because I can very much see myself falling in love with you very quickly."

Dan says all this from behind his companion, his lips pressed to Phil's ear. This way, it’s easier to feel Phil's shiver as he speaks the final words, and Dan likes that very much.

"Turn around," he orders softly. Phil obeys, his blue eyes intense yet terrified as he turns to see Dan staring at him.

"Did you mean it?" Phil asks, searching desperately for reassurance.

"Every word," Dan promises.

"So it's okay if I do this?" And with that, Phil reaches up onto his tiptoes (Dan is really very tall) and presses his lips to Dan's. Dan's hand is already on Phil's waist, so he uses it to pull the artist closer, clinging to him and slipping both arms around him. They both smile in unison at that, their lips curving against each other. Phil's hands are trapped into Dan's chest, and he rests them against it, tilting his head as both of them momentarily forget where they are.

"Er, Dan?" They both spring apart at the sound of Carrie's voice. A small giggle comes from Phil, and Dan smirks at the sound of it.

"What?" he asks laughingly.

"I just realized I didn't even know your name," Phil grins.

"You knew everything else of importance," Dan replies, slipping his hand into Phil's.

And maybe he can already feel himself falling.

 

Dan Howell does not hate art. In fact, there is a good chance that he loves it.

**Author's Note:**

> pleasepleaseplease comment your thoughts.


End file.
